


It's Raining Back Home in Budapest

by peach_oolong_tea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music Academy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Austria (main), Belgium (supporting), Cellist Slovakia (Hetalia), Classical Music, Coming of Age, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Human Names Used, Hungary (main), Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Music, Music Academy, Mutual Pining, Pianist Austria (Hetalia), Pianist Hungary (Hetalia), References to Depression, Romance, Saxophonist Belgium (Hetalia), Slovakia (supporting), Tragedy, Violinist Austria (Hetalia)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29575176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peach_oolong_tea/pseuds/peach_oolong_tea
Summary: It's been a long time, but the city is still so familiar.Elizabeta had wanted to never come back. It had been difficult enough to leave in the first place—to turn her back on those she cared about, on the memories of their happiness, on the future they would have had together.It had been the most difficult to leavehimbehind.But, ultimately, he had loved music as though it were a part of his very self, and she had not, and so she had made the choice to leave.They're happier now, she knows. They're better off without her. But still, she wonders—do they think of her, even now? She still thinks of them. She still thinks of him.It's been more than two years since she had made the choice to leave, since she had chosen her own happiness. So sheishappier now, right?It's all been worth it, right?Updates weekly!
Relationships: Austria/Hungary (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm back and very excited to be publishing the first chapter of my new story, "It's Raining Back Home in Budapest."
> 
> As this story features German phrases, I have included translations and some contextual information in the end notes.
> 
> I'd like to credit my amazing beta readers [Beini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beini/pseuds/Beini) and [u/Steven-A-Starphase](https://www.reddit.com/user/Steven-A-Starphase/) (from Reddit!), who was kind enough to translate the German phrases in this story!
> 
> I really hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

Elizabeta wakes.

For a moment, she is disoriented.

They are unfamiliar, those pale blue-green walls, those gauzy white drapes billowing ever so slightly in the breeze that comes in from the open window. Early morning filters into the room—the pale glow of a not-yet sunrise and the drowsy sounds of the city beyond the window, not yet woken fully from its slumber.

Still half-asleep herself, Elizabeta looks around, takes in her surroundings. It is then that she realizes where she is, recognizes the cream-colored comforter atop which she is curled and the creased pages of sheet music scattered across the bed and the battered black folder still clutched in her right hand.

There is a scrap of paper taped to its front. On it, scrawled in messy, cramped script, is her own name; above that are the words “Accompaniment Music.”

With a careful hand, she traces a fingertip over the words.

 _It’s been a long time_ , Elizabeta muses. _I wonder…_

Despite it all, she remembers—remembers those days that she had spent in this city, those days that seem so long ago, so far away now. She can remember them, remember him, with a clarity that is almost painful.

She closes her eyes.

They flicker to life in the darkness behind her eyelids, fragments of the places that, for her, have existed only in memory for the past two years. They are that which Elizabeta can neither bear to relive nor bear to forget, to let simply slip through her fingers like sand through a sieve.

 _No. Not now_.

She opens her eyes once again, staring fixedly at one of the pages scattered across her bed, trying in vain to focus on something else, on anything else.

Elizabeta sighs. Although she had never given it much thought—had actively tried to avoid thinking about it at times, in fact—some part of her has always known that she would have to return at some point to this city, to this place.

 _I have to_.

Sitting up, she pulls her knees close to her body, wraps her arms across herself.

 _Today_.

The thought is resolute.

 _Today, I’ll go back_.

It is an hour or two later that she is ready to leave the apartment. She leaves those loose pages of sheet music in a neat pile atop the black folder on her nightstand, straightens the bedcovers, unlocks her phone to check the weather before she changes for the day.

The app opens onto a rainy background. Elizabeta glances out the window, confused—by now, the sun has risen, rays of light shining over the city and filtering into her room. She looks back down at her phone.

 _Budapest_ , it reads at the top. _Rain_.

 _Ah_ , she realizes. She begins to swipe through the different screens, the different places—through this odd little record of where she’s been.

Of the places she wants to remember.

 _Lisbon. Tihany. Zweisimmen_.

 _Mostly clear. Sunny. Partly cloudy_.

She flips through them, one after another after another, until she reaches the very last one.

 _Vienna_.

 _Sunny_.

It is warm outside, she notes—about twenty-seven degrees.

Quickly, she changes into an outfit for the day—just a t-shirt and shorts, with a light jacket tied around her waist in case she gets cold. She opens her bag to make sure that her U-Bahn pass is still tucked safely into the inner pocket, then slings it over her shoulder. Satisfied that she has everything, she leaves the room and heads down the hall, stopping at the door of her mother’s study.

“Hey, Mom,” Elizabeta calls into the room.

“Yes, Erzsi? What’s the matter?” her mother asks, turning her head.

“Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to go out for a little bit. I’ll get something to eat on the way back. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Alright, no problem. I’m set for lunch, so just get something for yourself. Did you manage to get through your old music last night?”

“Most of it.”

“It’d be great if we could get that all cleaned up before you leave for Polytechnikum.”

“Of course! Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be done soon.”

"Okay, sweetie. Have a good time!”

“Bye! See you later,” she calls over her shoulder, turning to make her way down the hall and to the entryway.

She pauses briefly to slip on a pair of sneakers, and then she is on her way.

The city has to come to life now, the air filled with sunlight and noise. Elizabeta closes her eyes for a moment, lets that warmth soak into her skin and those sounds flow around her. She can almost imagine that she is back in Budapest—

—but when she opens her eyes, she sees the city that she left behind two years ago, still frustratingly familiar despite all the time that has passed.

Abruptly, Elizabeta turns on her heel and starts down the street. When she reaches the first intersection, she pauses, unsure, briefly, of where to go.

Left, she remembers after a few seconds. I have to turn left here.

After a few minutes, she sees those familiar glass-and-metal arches and the sign that reads _Nestroyplatz_. Elizabeta pauses for a second, checking once again that she has her U-Bahn pass, and then she heads down the steps and into the station.

It is different now, standing there on the platform, waiting for the next train to arrive. Her hair is short, just barely brushing the tops of her shoulders, although the hairpin has remained—that, she knows, she will never stop wearing. The sounds of the station fill her ears, rather than the notes of those classical pieces in that playlist to which she has not listened in more than two years. Her nails are long, the pale pink nail polish which she had applied to them perhaps a week ago just beginning to chip off.

Yet, there is still an indelible sense of familiarity about all of it.

The train arrives after a little while; Elizabeta boards. It is mostly full, but there are a few seats open here and there. She stands, grasping a pole by the doors for balance, because she knows that the trip will be quick. The doors shut, and the train pulls out of the station.

The stops go by quickly—Praterstern, Vorgartenstraße.

Pulling into the final station, the train slows to a stop. Through the window, she catches a glimpse of a sign mounted on the wall of the station; on it, in white block lettering, is the name of the station—Donauinsel.

Elizabeta disembarks, finds the exit, makes a right turn onto the bustling street beyond. A quick glance around confirms for her that she is in the right place. She continues down the sidewalk for a few minutes, and then she stops before a building with a pale limestone façade.

 _Wiener Musikakademie_.

 _Viennese Academy of Music_.

She knows, without looking up, that those are the words cut into the stone.

It hasn’t changed much. Elizabeta can remember it, can remember the last time she stood here, in this very spot.

It had been cold, then, and dark, too, the grayish light of predawn just beginning to seep into the sky. It had been quiet that morning, the only sound the crunch of the newly fallen snow under her boots as she had walked down the path—

—but then she had stopped, and simply stood, and it had been silent after that.

Where there had been windblown snowdrifts piled high against the building then, there are sun-dappled patches of cool shade now. Where she had stood two years ago, she stands again now.

Without even taking so much as a moment to calm her nerves, Elizabeta makes her way up the stairs at the academy’s entrance and pulls open the double doors.

The woman at the front desk looks up; she looks familiar, vaguely recognizable. The name tag pinned to the front of her crisply ironed blouse reads _Christa Weber_.

“Hello!” she says cheerily. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, _Frau_ Weber,” Elizabeta returns hesitantly. “My name is Elizabeta Héderváry, and I’m…a former student here. I recently graduated, and I was wondering if I’d be able to take a last look around before I leave for university.”

“Of course, _Frau_ Héderváry! If you would please fill out this form…”

Weber holds out a form, a clipboard, and a pen; Elizabeta takes them and moves to sit down in one of the chairs in the adjacent waiting area. Getting up after a few minutes, she goes to hand them to Weber, who takes them.

“Enjoy your visit to our school!” she says.

“Thank you,” Elizabeta returns, and she steps into the entryway.

She pauses a moment, stands under those soaring, echoing marble arches. If she closes her eyes and concentrates hard enough, she can almost hear the chatter of students milling about in the morning—

—the not-quite silence of faraway snatches of conversation and laughter that drift through the halls when class is in session—

—the distant, sweet, strains of classical music that—

Elizabeta opens her eyes to find herself alone, to find that it really is only silence that surrounds her.

 _Come on_ , she tells herself. _Don’t just stand there_.

She takes one step, then another.

 _One step at a time. Come on. You have to get going_.

Another, and another, and another, until she is walking down the hallway. She lets out the breath she has been holding. It is better this way, she thinks, with the sound of her footsteps filling the air, breaking up the silence until it is manageable.

After a little while, Elizabeta turns left, continuing. Gradually, a feeling almost like dread seems to settle over her.

She is close, she knows.

Eventually, she stops. Before her is a heavy wooden door with a small, rectangular window. The room beyond it is dark.

Before she can even register what she is doing, she is pulling the door open. By touch, she searches for the switch panel at her right, and suddenly there is light—

—and in that instant, it is almost as if she is there again, seated before that old upright piano. She can see them now, those very same creased pages of sheet music that had been scattered over her bed that morning instead arrayed neatly in front of her. She can see her own hands hovering over those worn black-and-white keys, poised to play.

She can remember what it felt like to have Roderich standing next to her, his violin held carefully in the juncture of his neck and shoulder and his bow held at the ready.

She can remember what it felt like to share that silence between the two of them.

Elizabeta sits at the bench and lifts the lid over the keyboard. Gingerly, she lifts both hands up to the keys, instinct and muscle memory guiding them into place.

It is an A-major chord in her right hand—her first finger on A4, her second finger on C#5, her third finger on E5, her fifth finger on A5—and an A octave in her left hand, her first finger on A2 and her fifth finger on A1.

Elizabeta looks down, and she sees the opening chords for the piano part of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata.

In silence, she waits for the opening strains of the violin to sound, to fill those four measures of rest during which she will wait, her hands still on the keys. She waits, and waits, and waits, but they never come, and she realizes slowly, haltingly, that they won’t. Even so, she presses down softly, and the tones sound quietly. After a moment, she goes to lift her fingers from the keyboard, to shift her right hand down and her left hand up and to play the next chords, but she finds that she cannot.

“Don’t,” Elizabeta whispers softly. “Don’t think about him. He’s happy now. He’s better off without you.”

And so she sits there, in the wake of those quickly-fading notes, in that near-silence.

_Why did I even come back here?_

She sighs, closes the lid, gets up.

 _It’s no use_.

She stops, straightens her clothes, glances around the room to make sure she has everything.

 _I have to go_.

She walks to the switch panel, turns the light off, tugs the heavy wooden door open—

—pauses.

There, illuminated in the light that slants in from the hallway, is something white—a sheet of paper, perhaps?—just barely sticking out from underneath the piano.

Elizabeta lets the door fall closed and reaches for the switch once again. Kneeling by the piano, she finds a sheaf of papers beneath it. Brushing away the dust that clings to the first page, she sees staves, a treble clef, a bass clef printed on the paper.

It is a piano composition before her, she realizes.

There is a key signature, a time signature, a tempo directive—adagio sostenuto—all penciled in. 

There are carefully drawn notes that seem to flow effortlessly through the staves, and there is a title written in an elegant, looping hand.

 _I. Einsamkeit und Erinnerungen_ , she reads. Loneliness and Memories. Her grip on the paper tightens, ever so slightly.

Once again, she sits before the upright. She lifts the lid.

She sets her hands to the keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information and context.
> 
> In Austria, temperature is measured in Celsius. 27°C is about 81°F.
> 
> The Vienna U-Bahn is the mass transit system that serves Vienna, Austria. "U-Bahn" is short for " _untergrundbahn_ ," which means "underground railway."
> 
> "Polytechnikum" is the colloquial German name for the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, shortened to ETH Zürich and known in German as " _Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule Zürich_." It is located in the city of Zürich, Switzerland.
> 
> Nestroyplatz, Praterstern, Vorgartenstraße, and Donauinsel are Vienna U-Bahn stations. They are all on Line U1; Praterstern is also on Line U2.
> 
> "Wiener Musikakademie" translates to "Viennese Academy of Music," which is a fictional music academy in Vienna.
> 
> " _Einsamkeit und Erinnerungen_ translates to " _Loneliness and Memories_."
> 
> Now, with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading! I've also written a completed story about Lukas (Norway) and Magnus (Denmark), so make sure to check that out if you would like. It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism—I always appreciate it very much!
> 
> Lastly, the next chapter will be posted next Friday, February 26th.


	2. Einsamkeit und Erinnerungen - Loneliness and Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm very excited to be publishing the second chapter of "It's Raining Back Home in Budapest."
> 
> First, I'd like to thank everyone that has read the first chapter, commented, or left Kudos! You guys are awesome.
> 
> Second, as was the case last time, translations for the German phrases used in the chapter, as well as some contextual information, are included in the end notes.
> 
> I'd like to credit my amazing beta readers [Beini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beini/pseuds/Beini) and [u/Steven-A-Starphase](https://www.reddit.com/user/Steven-A-Starphase/) (from Reddit!), who was kind enough to translate the German phrases in this story!
> 
> I really hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

Elizabeta plays slowly at first, for it has been a long time.

She seeks them out one by one on the keyboard, those notes inked on the pages of sheet music before her, plucks out those shimmering little bits of sound from the suffocating silence that fills the cramped soundproof room.

Everything about this, this first, tentative assembly of notes into chords into phrases, is familiar. She is surprised to find that, oddly enough, the notion of playing the piano no longer invokes in her that feeling of resentment that she has come to know so well. She finds that, perhaps, it is even a little comforting in its familiarity.

Elizabeta pauses briefly.

 _Things have changed_.

She plays on, less hesitant now, memory and instinct directing her fingers to the right keys.

It is nearing the end of the fifth measure that the melodic line begins to take shape, that, suddenly and impossibly, she begins to hear them, the mournful words that seem to sing through the music.

_Madárka, madárka,_  
_Csácsogó madárka,_  
_Vidd el a levelem, vidd el a levelem,_  
_Szép magyar hazámba._

_Little bird, little bird,_  
_Little songbird,_  
_Take this letter of mine_  
_Home to my beloved Hungary_.

Elizabeta almost falters, almost stops, but she doesn’t. There is no mistaking it.

_Budapest, Hungary_  
_July, four years ago_

“Erzsi, are you ready to go? We need to leave soon!”

It’s her mother, Elizabeta realizes, calling from downstairs.

“Just a minute, Mom! I’ll be down soon,” Elizabeta responds.

She lets out a long breath, stands, looks around. Although it is her room, she doesn’t really recognize it anymore. Almost everything of hers is gone now, packed away and sent on ahead.

Gone are the framed photograph of her and her parents in front of the Müpa Budapest and the intricately carved wooden music box from her nightstand—

—the battered copy of Michael Collins’ _Carrying the Fire_ and the little metal Tupolev Tu-134 Malév model airplane from her desk—

—the clothes from her closet, the covers from her bed, the pictures from her walls.

She sighs.

 _It’s time to go, I guess_.

Pausing a moment to sling her bag over one arm and push in the chair at her desk, Elizabeta takes a final look around and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Downstairs, her parents are waiting.

“Ready to go, Erzsi?” her father asks.

“Ready to go,” she repeats affirmatively.

Her parents head out ahead of her. Elizabeta lingers, takes one last look around—

—tries to burn it into her memory. It doesn’t matter, she knows, for even though she has spent all of her life here, she will forget it. Gradually, the place that this home holds in her memory will diminish, and she will remember less and less and less of it.

Gradually, _home_ will become somewhere else, something else.

There will come a day when she doesn’t miss this place quite so much, when it won’t hurt quite so much to think of it.

She doesn’t want that day to come.

 _Now is not the time_ , Elizabeta admonishes herself, and she forces herself to take one step after another after another, forces herself to step through the doorway and not look back.

Her father drives. Her mother sits in the passenger seat and Elizabeta in the back seat, her own bag and an additional duffel on the seat next to her.

It’s a pleasant day—balmy, sunny, a little breezy. She opens the window just a crack, just enough for the sunlight and sound that fill the city beyond to seep in. She shuts her eyes, tries to will herself to sleep. She doesn’t want to remember what it feels like to leave, but at the same, she cannot bring herself to close the window once more, to shut it all out and begin to forget.

 _It’ll be alright_ , she tells herself, drifting in the darkness behind her eyelids. _Just keep going_.

She can't sleep. A half hour passes, and then they arrive at Budapest-Keleti.

“Andris, we should probably get going,” Elizabeta’s mother says after a pause, turning to her father.

“Are you sure? I can go inside with you and see you off on the platform,” her father replies, putting the car in park.

“No, it’s okay. Better not to risk someone seeing you, right?”

“Right. Remember to call me when you get there, yeah? Love you, Réka.”

“Love you, too.”

Her mother opens the passenger door, and Elizabeta follows suit. She puts her own bag and the duffel on the sidewalk, then makes her way to the driver door. When her father opens it, she gives him a hug.

“Love you, Erszi. Remember to study hard in Vienna, okay?” he reminds her.

“Love you, too, Dad. Don’t worry, I’ll make you and Mom proud,” she says. Her words do not waver.

“We’re already proud of you, Erszi. You’ve already accomplished so much. Keep it up, and you’ll make an incredible concert pianist someday soon,” her father says with a proud smile.

Elizabeta returns her father’s smile with her own and takes a few steps back, and he pulls the door shut. She makes her way around the back of the car to where her mother is waiting, duffel in hand. Shrugging on her bag, she waves a last goodbye to her father.

And then they are turning around and walking away and then, suddenly, they are rounding the corner of the station and going in and Elizabeta knows that even if she turns around, she won’t be able to see the car anymore.

She bites her lip, hoping that the pain will help her stay grounded.

 _Not now. Don’t lose your cool_.

It takes her a moment, but she is able to force it down.

Her mother stops in front of a digital departure board, looking it up and down.

“We need to go to Platform 10. Our train will be on time,” she says, turning to Elizabeta. “Do you want to get a drink or something before we board?”

“I’m good,” Elizabeta responds. “I already have a bottle of water in my bag.”

“Then...ready to go?”

“Ready. Let’s go.”

They make their way through the terminal, and then they’re on the platform, and then they’ve boarded. At that point, it’s still about twenty-five minutes before the train is to depart, so most of the seats around them are empty.

“Why don’t you sit by the window, Erzsi? I know you like the view,” her mother says, putting away the duffel.

“Ah, okay…thanks, Mom.”

“Do you want to hold on to your bag? I can put it up on the rack with the duffel bag, if you want.”

“No, I can just hold on to it.”

“Alright! Now that that’s settled…” Her mother pauses, yawning.

“The past few days have been busy, so you should try to get some sleep, Mom. If you give me the tickets, I can wait for the conductor to come by.”

“Are you sure? I know that these past few days haven’t been easy for you, either…”

“Of course! I don’t think I could sleep anyway. I’m too excited!”

“That’s the spirit!” her mother says with a smile. “Would you mind setting an alarm for three hours or so just in case you fall asleep, then?”

“Of course, Mom. I’ll make sure we don’t miss our stop.”

At that, her mother thanks her and settles in. Elizabeta sets the alarm and leans back, turning and looking out the window. By the time the train pulls out of the station, her mother is sound asleep beside her. Another fifteen minutes or so pass, and then the conductor comes by and punches their tickets.

After that, she simply sits and watches as the cityscape of Budapest rushes by beyond the window, and although they have not left the city limits yet, she already feels homesick, already misses how her room used to be and the breeze that would come in through the open window in summer evenings and even how the grand mahogany piano had glowed in the afternoon sunlight.

It comes to mind, then—the song that her grandmother had used to sing to her. Slowly, the lyrics come back to her—

_Madárka, madárka,_  
_Csácsogó madárka,_  
_Vidd el a levelem, vidd el a levelem,_  
_Szép magyar hazámba._

_Little bird, little bird,_  
_Little songbird,_  
_Take this letter of mine_  
_Home to my beloved Hungary_.

—and she remembers, remembers sitting with her grandmother in the little sun-filled alcove in the living room and asking to hear the story, time and time again, of how she had fought for home away from home during the revolutionary years.

She hums it to herself quietly, so quietly that it is lost in the rumble of the train traveling over the tracks.

Elizabeta remembers hearing those keening, mourning words, remembers thinking with a deep sense of conviction that _yes, this will always be home_.

And then, something in her finally, quietly breaks, and the tears well up and spill over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information:
> 
>  _Einsamkeit und Erinnerungen_ translates to " _Loneliness and Memories_."
> 
> The song referenced in this chapter is " _Madárka, madárka_ ," and it is a Hungarian folk song about missing home.
> 
> The Müpa Budapest is a building located in Ferencváros, which is the ninth district of Budapest, Hungary. It houses the Bartók National Concert Hall, the Ludwig Museum, and the Festival Theatre.
> 
>  _Carrying the Fire_ ( _Carrying the Fire: An Astronaut's Journey's_ in full) is the autobiography of Michael Collins, an astronaut that was on the Gemini 10 and Apollo 11 NASA space missions.
> 
> The Tupolev Tu-134 Malév was a Soviet airplane that was used by the now-defunct Malév Hungarian Airlines (" _Magyar Légiközlekedési Vállalat_ " in Hungarian).
> 
> Budapest-Keleti is an international/intercity train station in Budapest, Hungary. It serves a line that goes to Vienna, Austria.
> 
> "The revolutionary years" refers to the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, also known as the Hungarian Uprising, which was a Cold War-era, nationwide revolution against the Soviet Union. It lasted from June 23, 1956 to November 4 of the same year, and ended in a Soviet victory.
> 
> Now, with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading! It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism—I always appreciate it very much :)
> 
> Lastly, the next chapter will be posted next Friday, March 5th.


	3. Akademie-Etüde - Academy Étude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm very excited to be publishing the third chapter of "It's Raining Back in Budapest!"
> 
> First, I'd like to thank everyone that has read, commented, or left Kudos on the previous chapters! You guys are awesome.
> 
> Second, I'd like to apologize for the late upload! I was unexpectedly busy and was unable to publish this chapter on time.
> 
> Third, as always, translations for the German phrases used in the chapter, as well as some contextual information, are included in the end notes.
> 
> I'd like to credit my amazing beta readers [Beini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beini/pseuds/Beini) and [u/Steven-A-Starphase](https://www.reddit.com/user/Steven-A-Starphase/) (from Reddit!), who was kind enough to translate the German phrases in this story!
> 
> I really hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

The piece ends on a minor chord, and Elizabeta lifts her hands gingerly from the keys.

It’s been a long time since she’s walked the streets of this city and the halls of this school with those words and those notes filling her head—

—humming in her throat—

—lingering on the tip of her tongue like the faint, delicate aftertaste of the sweet pastry cream and light powdered sugar of the krémes that her mother would sometimes get from the bakery down the street.

It’s just been a long time since she’s been here at all.

She lets out a long breath.

Her movements measured, Elizabeta gathers up the pages of sheet music before her, and then, slowly, surely, she arranges the pages of the next piece on the stand.

 _II. Akademie-Etüde_ , she reads at the top. _Academy Étude_.

The words are written in that same, elegant script.

There is another tempo directive, another time signature, another key signature.

 _Andante_ , 6/8, A-sharp major.

Once again, she lifts her hands to the keyboard, and this time, it feels easier. Even now, it is something she remembers so well, something she can pick up again with so little effort.

She plays.

Her movements are no longer hesitant; instead, they are more fluid, more confident, and she easily plays at the andante specified at the top of the page.

Elizabeta smiles an odd half-smile. She finds herself wondering if she has truly missed this—or if it is just the memory of this place and its people that is filling her thoughts, that is making her long for something long since passed.

And then, as she nears the end of the third line, she is filled with an immediate and impossible sense of recognition. Elizabeta freezes with her hands still on the keys, bringing the soft, slow melody to a jarring halt.

She sits there for a moment.

The chords fade into the still air around her. This melody—

—she knows it. She remembers it.

The progression of notes which sounds in her memory is, perhaps, slightly different to the one she has just played—a little slower, a little simpler, a little softer, perhaps.

Even so, she cannot deny it.

 _How?_ she wonders. _How is it…that this is here? How is it that I’ve found it again?_

_Vienna, Austria_  
_September, four years ago_

Slowly, Elizabeta wakes.

All around her, the air is saturated with a gossamer half-light; drowsily, she rises, slips her feet into her slippers, and makes her way to the window, pulling aside the gauzy white drapes to let the morning sunlight spill into her room.

Just then, her alarm rings. Yawning, she pads over to her nightstand, picking up her phone and turning it off. As she puts her phone back, she knocks something down; kneeling on the hardwood floor, she finds that it is the little metal Tupolev Tu-134 Malév model airplane that has tumbled to the ground. Picking it up, she places it back in its place atop her copy of _Carrying the Fire_.

 _Another day_ , she thinks, stretching, and then she leaves her room, going down the hall to the bathroom.

There, Elizabeta readies herself for the day, brushes her teeth and washes her face and pulls a brush through her long brown curls. Back in her room, she puts on her uniform—crisp white blouse, beige, knee-length skirt, white ankle socks, burgundy blazer and a matching, silken ribbon that she ties around her neck.

In the kitchen, she prepares a quick breakfast for herself, taking care to be quiet; her mother’s door is still closed, the apartment still quiet. By the time she finishes eating, it is a few minutes to seven o’clock—time for her to leave.

She slips into the entryway, tugs on those black leather shoes that are still stiff and uncomfortable and somehow not broken in after almost three weeks of daily wear, slings her bag over one shoulder, checks that her U-Bahn pass and key are zippered into the side pocket.

Satisfied that she has everything, Elizabeta leaves the apartment, quietly closing the door behind her.

As she has almost every day for the past few weeks, she walks through the still-half-slumbering city to Nestroyplatz. She rides the U-Bahn to Praterstern, then Vorgartenstraße, then Donauinsel, where she gets off.

A quick glance at her phone tells her that she’s running a few minutes early, so she stops for a little while at the railing on the Reichsbrücke. She closes her eyes briefly, letting the crisp, pleasantly cool breeze sweep over her. Although it is nearing the end of September, the air does not yet hold the chill of autumn.

After a moment, she opens her eyes and looks out over the Danube, watches the water ripple and takes comfort in the fact that it is the same river that flows, even now, through the city of her home.

A little more time passes, and Elizabeta starts down the bridge once again. Once she reaches the end, she makes a right and continues down the street. After a few more minutes, she is standing before the school, beneath the pale limestone arches and the words _Wiener Musikakademie_.

 _Another day_.

“Hey, Erzsi!” Someone calls her name.

She thinks she recognizes the voice, but she turns to see who it is, just to make sure—but then, someone crashes into her. For a second, she wobbles, trying to keep her balance, and then she falls.

Instinctively, she puts out a hand to stop herself from hitting the ground, but she still lands hard.

“Erzsi! Erzsi, are you okay?”

A little dazed, she looks up to see Laura rushing over; she realizes belatedly that it had indeed been the other girl calling her name.

“Yeah,” she says slowly, taking a few moments to collect herself. She shakes her head a little to clear it. “I’m…I’m okay, I think.”

Setting her saxophone case down on the sidewalk, Laura extends a hand to help her up. At the contact, there is a sharp, stinging pain that flares to life in her palm.

“Ow!” Elizabeta cries out, pulling back to examine it. There is a flurry of scrapes there, just beginning to seep red. She winces, bites her lip to brace herself against the pain.

“Watch it!” someone snaps angrily, then, from next to her. “I almost dropped my violin, thanks to you!”

“I’m so sorry,” she begins, turning to face whoever it is. “I just…”

Then, she sees that pale face in profile—

—soft, waving locks of dark brown hair, with one stubborn curl standing up—

—a freckle next to a full lower lip—

—half-rimmed glasses framing icy violet eyes that lock, instantly, onto hers.

And the words die on her tongue.

“No, you watch it!” Laura exclaims angrily. “Look what you did to her hand! Apologize to her!”

“Apologize? Please. She should learn to be more careful.”

“Seriously? I can’t believe you,” Laura grinds out. “How’s she supposed to practice now? Apologize!”

He scoffs dismissively. Rises, turns, simply walks away. Laura starts after him, but Elizabeta stops her.

“No,” she says quietly. “Just…don’t. It’s not worth it. We…we should get to class.”

“Why? He can’t treat you like this, Erzsi.”

“He probably...just sees me as competition. You know, my father and all…”

“But that’s no excuse! He doesn't even know you!”

“Come on, Lauri. It…it doesn’t even bother me anymore. It's been three weeks already…it just doesn't matter. We should head in, okay? It’s not worth it. If he wants to be like this, it’s on him.”

“Fine,” Laura concedes reluctantly. Grasping Elizabeta’s good hand, she helps her up.

They head into the school; there is time enough before the final bell for a visit to the nurse’s office, and Elizabeta heads to her first class of the day with a white gauze bandage wrapped around her hand and the still-smarting wound it conceals.

Her music classes that day are uneventful—theory, then a piano lesson, then composition. After composition ends, she heads to the cafeteria, where she eats lunch with Laura and a friend of theirs, a brown-haired cellist named Jaromír.

After lunch, she has her core classes—first European history, then precalculus, then English language, then literature.

And then, the final bell rings and the pain in her hand has, by then, faded to a dull, throbbing ache, and just like that, another school day is over. As she gathers her things to go home in the literature classroom, her phone buzzes with a text from Laura.

 _Gotta stay behind for the first newspaper meeting today, sorry I can’t walk to the station with you :(_ , Elizabeta reads.

 _Don’t worry about it!! Thanks for letting me know_ , she texts back.

She zippers her bag up and walks out of the classroom, and she’s walking down the hallway when she suddenly stops. It’s not as if she hasn’t had to walk to the station on her own before—it had been a few days into the term that she had met Laura and they first had walked from the academy together after the school day had ended, parting ways at Donauinsel.

She thinks about the quiet, empty apartment to which she will return, and after a moment, she decides that she would rather stay at the academy, that she would rather stay here where she can hear faint, echoing snatches of laughter and talk in the hallways and she can feel just a little less alone, than go back there.

Reaching for her phone again, Elizabeta sends a message to her mother: _Hey Mom, I’m going to stay after school and try out the practice rooms here. I’ll probably still be home before you, but I just wanted to let you know_.

She continues down the hall and makes a right down one of the adjoining corridors, soon reaching the practice rooms. Once she finds one that is empty and in which she can see the silhouette of a piano in the light filtering in through the window, she cautiously turns the doorknob, tugs the heavy wooden door open, and enters.

She flips the switch, and the practice room fills with pale fluorescent light.

There is an upright piano at one side of the room; on the wall opposite, there are square soundproofing panels. Elizabeta pulls the bench out, depositing her bag on the floor with a _thunk_ next to her.

She sits, and all of a sudden—

—it’s so quiet.

It’s too quiet.

She gets up as if to leave, but then she thinks about the lonely halls of the academy beyond the door. She thinks about how she’ll have to walk to the station alone, and although she’s done it before, she doesn’t think she can—no, not today. She thinks about how she’d be going back to an unfamiliar apartment, empty but for that crushing silence.

She thinks about the cloying smiles, the sickly-sweet words, the unabashed and sudden interest of the other students that had been directed at her as soon as it had to come to light who her father was.

She thinks about the still-aching scrapes beneath those pale gauze bandages, about those violet eyes and the icy glare with which they had caught her own that morning.

And in that instant, it all comes crashing down—all at once.

She misses Budapest. She misses those familiar streets and waking up in her own room and sitting in the sunroom and soaking in the warmth of those pooled rays of light.

She misses her father.

She misses _home_.

She doesn’t want to be here, in this foreign city. She doesn’t want to be at this school, where almost everyone has heard her father’s name.

She doesn’t even want to become—

Elizabeta doesn’t even realize she’s crying until the tears well up, well up and overflow and spill down her cheeks.

 _This is ridiculous_ , she tells herself, but the tears keep flowing. _Stop it!_

Gritting her teeth, she smudges away the tears, but it’s useless. They well up again, and her vision blurs quickly.

_Why...why can’t I stop?_

_Why—?_

She buries her face in her hands.

There is a gentle tap on the door, so light that she wonders if she’s imagined it. It sounds again, this time a little louder, and Elizabeta’s head snaps up. To her surprise, there is someone standing outside the door, although she cannot make out their face through the blur of her tears.

A creak sounds, and the door opens just a crack; she gives a start and skitters backward, falling off the end of the piano bench and landing hard on the tiled floor.

“Ow,” she groans.

Quickly and embarrassedly swiping away her tears, she looks up.

She sees a pale face—

—soft, waving locks of dark brown hair, with one stubborn curl standing up—

—a freckle next to a full lower lip—

—half-rimmed glasses framing—

“Are you alright?” he asks.

—violet eyes filled with concern.

Elizabeta sighs.

“No,” she finally manages. “I’m not.”

“Here,” Roderich says, extending a hand to her. “Let me help you up.”

His fingers are rough and callused on her palm, but his grip is gentle. Carefully, he pulls her up and they sit at opposite ends of the piano bench. He searches through his bag for a few seconds, then pulls out a small pack of tissues and offers her one. She thanks him and takes it, blotting at the tears still leaking from her eyes and blowing her nose.

There is a long, tense moment of silence.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

The words tumble from her mouth before she can stop them, and she immediately claps a hand to her mouth, admonishing herself.

Roderich is silent.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his words heavy. “I’ve been terrible to you, Elizabeta. I don’t…I don’t hate you, but I guess I’ve certainly made it seem that way, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” she sniffles. “And I don’t get it.”

“Will you…let me explain? I’ll understand if you don’t want to hear it, much less even talk to me.”

“…Okay. I’ll hear you out.”

He pauses, takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and then he begins to speak.

“If…it weren’t for my scholarship, I wouldn’t be able to attend this school. The other students here were never very accepting of me, and I’ve had to work so hard to gain even a little respect from them. You, though…you’re the exact opposite of me. Everyone here liked you instantly, all because of your father. Even though you started at the academy just this year, you’ve never had to prove yourself.”

Roderich pauses. She notices, in that moment, how tired he looks.

“I thought you’d be like the others, Elizabeta, but you weren’t. I…I assumed that you were here because of your father, and even though you might be, you still deserve to be. You were kind to me, and I was horrible to you, and I’m…”

He holds her gaze in his own.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I’ve been to you these past few weeks, especially this morning. It was my fault, and I should have been more careful.”

“Thank you, Roderich.” Elizabeta offers him a watery smile after a moment. “I understand why, so…I accept your apology. And, well…it was an accident, and my hand will be fine in a few days, so no harm done.”

“No. I should be the one thanking you, Elizabeta. I had no right to judge you like that…no right to treat you like I did, and yet, you’ve still shown me more kindness than almost everyone here. And no matter if your hand will be fine in a few days, it must hurt now, especially when you practice…for that, I'm really sorry, Elizabeta."

“Well, you never deserved to be treated that way to begin with. And it's no big deal, I promise. It might do me good to practice a little less for a while.”

“Thank you,” Roderich says, and he smiles a little, but it is melancholy and a tinge bitter. “I guess…do you…feel better now?”

“A little,” she answers after a pause. “To be honest, I just…want to go home. Here, almost everyone knows me first as Andris Héderváry’s daughter, and second as just…me. I just want to feel _normal_ again.”

After that, silence once again fills the space between them. This time, Roderich is the one to break it.

“Could I…play something for you, Elizabeta? I think…that some music might help. It’s always been a comfort to me.”

“…Okay.”

She moves to the right side of the bench, letting him have most of it, and he sets his hands to the keys.

The piece that he plays is slow, and soft, and sweet. Those dulcet tones twine around her like an embrace, a summery breeze, a word of comfort. She closes her eyes and lets it surround her, lets herself simply drift amidst the melody and feel alright, truly, for the first time since she had arrived in Vienna.

When the music stops, Elizabeta is surprised to find that she does feel at peace.

“Thank you,” she says softly, as Roderich gracefully lifts his hands from the keyboard. “I…really do feel much better now.”

“I’m glad, then,” he says, and there is something hopeful in his smile this time. “I-If you’re up for it, would you like to take a walk with me? There’s a place by the river that I visit whenever I’m frustrated or down, and I’d…I’d like to show it to you.”

“Of course,” she says, and she smiles, too. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information: 
> 
> _Akademie-Etüde_ translates to " _Academy Étude_."
> 
> Krémes are Hungarian pastries. They typically consist of two layers of puff pastry, held together by pastry cream and dusted on top with powdered sugar.
> 
> The Reichsbrücke is a bridge linking Leopoldstadt, the second district of Vienna, to the twenty-second district of Vienna, Donaustadt.
> 
> Now, with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading! It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism—I always appreciate it very much!
> 
> Lastly, the next chapter will be posted next Friday, March 12th.


	4. Das Waldfenster - The Forest Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm very excited to be publishing today the fourth chapter of "It's Raining Back in Budapest."
> 
> First, I'd like to thank everyone that has read, commented, or left Kudos on the previous chapters! You guys are awesome :)
> 
> Second, as always, translations for any German phrases used in the chapter, as well as any necessary contextual information, are included in the end notes.
> 
> I'd like to credit my amazing beta readers [Beini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beini/pseuds/Beini) and [u/Steven-A-Starphase](https://www.reddit.com/user/Steven-A-Starphase/) (from Reddit!), who was kind enough to translate the German phrases in this story!
> 
> I really hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

To this day, Elizabeta still remembers the melody of the piece he had played for her, although she can no longer remember its name, try as she might.

Sitting there on that very same bench four years later, she remembers the loneliness she had felt that day, a whisper of which seems to wreath around her even now.

_When was the last time I spoke to Erich? Or Lauri...or Jarek?_

She shakes her head.

_No. Everything is fine as it is. There’s no need…_

Turning to the pile of sheet music on the bench next to her, she gathers and arranges the pages of the third piece on the music stand before her.

 _III. Das Waldfenster_ , she reads— _The Forest Window_. It is the title that loops and curls across the top of the page.

 _Andante_ , 2/2. B-flat, E-flat, A-flat.

 _E-flat major_ , she realizes. It takes her just a second.

And again, Elizabeta plays—this time, with confidence.

Though the melody is mournful and tinged with melancholy, the rhythms are lively. Spirited. It is something Latin, she thinks—

—no, she remembers.

It is not so much that she has tried to forget it as it is just a single memory, a single string of moments. Something that happened a long time ago.

The lyrics have long since faded from her recollection, but the melody she remembers. And she remembers the kiss of the salty ocean breeze on her skin and the feeling of sand between her toes and clinging to her skin and. She remembers, then, wanting more than anything—

_Lisbon, Portugal_  
_April, three years ago_

There, under the blindingly bright stage lights, Elizabeta lifts her hands to the keys.

She glances to her right hand—her first finger is on A4, her second finger C#5, her third finger E5, her fifth finger A5—

—then to her left hand; her first finger is on A2 and her fifth A1—

—and then she waits.

She waits, in the silence that fills the auditorium, for those first strains of the violin to sound, for those chords to fill those four measures of silence during which she will wait for her entrance.

And, after a few more moments, they do.

Those first, gloriously resonant chords fill the entire space, reverberating off those high-soaring, high-arching walls. She knows, without looking at him, the exact way that he holds the violin in the crook of his neck, both gently reverent and quietly intense. She knows, can imagine in crystal clarity, the deft and precisely controlled back-and-forth movement of his left hand that confers to the notes their trembling vibrato. She knows, surer than the instinctive memory of notes and chords in her fingers, how he wields the bow in his right hand, draws it across the strings like it is a part of his very self.

Then, as the last, singular note soars through the air and eventually dissipates to leave silence in its wake, Elizabeta begins to play.

Fortepiano, she knows, is the dynamic marking in that fifth measure, so she plays the first chord with strength, and it rings triumphantly through the auditorium. On the next, she immediately pulls back, executing a gradual decrescendo over the rest of the phrase.

She plays the next two measures after that, and then he joins her, and then it is just the two of them and the music, the melodies of Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata—

—but, she realizes, there is something else.

In that moment, finally there on this stage and in this concert hall, amidst the sound of the fluttering trills and the fleeting glimmers of arpeggios and the full, heady chords, there is a strange and immediate sense of urgency, of exigency, that seems to come over her.

Oddly, inexplicably, she knows that it is because of _him_.

As her fingers dance up and down the keyboard, Elizabeta finds herself wondering whether she has ever before felt anything real with her hands set to the keys and notes springing effortlessly from her fingertips.

Before, it had been a dull sense of duty or, at most, an ordinary feeling of contentment, perhaps, when her father had praised her for playing well. That had been all she had ever felt, had ever expected to feel.

She had never expected anything more, had certainly never expected to feel something so _real_.

And so Elizabeta plays on, even though she knows that it can’t last, especially because it can’t.

So passes the first movement, the _Adagio sostenuto - Presto_ —

—and then the second movement, the _Andante con variazioni_ —

—and then, finally, the third movement, the _Presto_.

And just like that, it’s over. They are dismissed from the auditorium, and once they have checked in with their instructor and changed into street clothes and they are standing by the busy street outside the concert hall, Elizabeta finally looks at Roderich.

“Erzsi…” he says, a little dazedly. “I…I can’t believe it. The competition’s over.”

“I’m still trying to process that we got picked for our year,” she responds, shaking her head a little. “I can’t believe it either. We really did it.”

For a long moment, there is only the sound of traffic and the bustle and chatter of people passing by. Then, suddenly, he speaks.

“We’ve got the rest of the afternoon…so why don’t we go somewhere?” he asks, turning to face her. There is a glint to his eyes.

“Where?”

“The beach. Haven’t you always wanted to see the ocean?”

“…Yeah. I’m…surprised that you remembered.”

“Of course I did! We can look for sea glass there too, like you mentioned before.”

“Oh…you remembered that too?” Elizabeta asks, surprised.

“Of course! Shall we get going?”

They drop their performance clothes back at the hotel and make their way through the cobbled streets of Lisbon, and then there is the great white arch and the Praça do Comércio, and then, finally, they are there. She can see the vast expanse of the water before her, see the line where the blue of the sea meets the blue of the sky. Before her are the steps that lead down to the beach, waves just lapping over the far end of the last one, which is nearly level with the sand.

They make their way down the stairs. As they reach the final step, there is a sharp _crack_. Startled, Roderich jumps back, and there, on the saltwater-soaked step, is a piece of fern-green glass, smoothed by sand and sea, broken neatly in two.

“Oh…sorry, Erzsi,” he says, and before she can react, he picks up the pieces and kneels on the step, submerging them in the briny water just below and allowing the waves to wash over them. After a second, he straightens up and offers them to her.

“Sorry…” Roderich repeats. “It was the first piece of sea glass…and I broke it.”

Elizabeta can’t help herself; a little laugh escapes her lips.

“Don’t be sorry!” she admonishes him playfully, and she steps down onto the damp sand, taking one of the pieces from his outstretched hand. Her fingers brush lightly against his palm; it is warm. She finds herself wondering, suddenly, what it would be like to take his hand in her own, his palm to hers and their fingers interlaced.

“Th-thank you,” she stammers after a moment. She can feel the heat suffusing her face; she knows that she is blushing.

“Wait, what about the second one?” he asks.

“Ah, you hold on to that one,” she says. “That way, we can both have one.”

Where the waves lap at the shore, they walk, picking up seashells and pieces of sea glass here and there. After a little while, they go to sit on the sand, side by side. She kicks off her flip-flops and revels in the feeling of sand between her toes, tilts her head back and closes her eyes and soaks in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight.

A few moments pass. Back in the square, perhaps, someone begins to sing, accompanied by what sounds like a guitar. Those notes are beautiful, sung in a deep, full, baritone voice. But though they are beautiful, there is something plaintive to them, an edge that is melancholic and mournful.

Elizabeta listens.

_Havia a solidão da prece no olhar triste_  
_Como se os seus olhos fossem as portas do pranto_  
_Sinal da cruz que persiste, os dedos contra o quebranto_  
_E os búzios que a velha lançava sobre um velho manto_

_À espreita está um grande amor mas guarda segredo_  
_Vazio tens o teu coração na ponta do medo_  
_Vê como os búzios caíram virados p’ra norte_  
_Pois eu vou mexer o destino, vou mudar-te a sorte_  
_Pois eu vou mexer o destino, vou mudar-te a sorte_

Elizabeta opens her eyes once again. It is just a performance, she knows, but the emotion woven through the strummed chords and keening words feels so real, so unbelievably, incomprehensibly, impossibly real.

“Do you hear that music?” she asks Roderich.

“I do,” he replies. “Whoever it is, they have a real talent,” he adds, to which she nods in agreement.

“It…sounds really sad, though,” she says after a moment, one hand plucking idly at the sand at her side.

“Well,” he begins. “I guess…when you really love what you’re doing, you…you can't help but put everything into it.”

There is silence, then, between them, and in that silence, Elizabeta tips her head up to look at the sky.

Above her, the sky is so deep and so, so blue, and she finds herself mesmerized by it, finds herself thinking of the little metal Tupolev Tu-134 Malév model airplane in its place atop her copy of _Carrying the Fire_ on her nightstand.

She finds herself wondering, as she cannot help but do whenever her eyes fall upon the little model airplane, what it would be like to design for an airplane its wings, to give to it the power to soar up and into the sky.

“Hey, Erich,” she says softly. “Did you ever want to do anything else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did…you always know that you wanted to become a musician?”

“Hmm…” He sighs. “Yes, I think so. I can’t recall ever wanting to do anything else. Why do you ask?”

In that moment, she really considers it—really considers telling him the reason why she still keeps the little metal Tupolev Tu-134 Malév model airplane in its place on her nightstand. She finds that she wants to tell him about all of it—about how it all began on a rainy day during a spontaneous trip to the Budapest Aeropark museum. She wants to tell him that despite coming here, despite the competition and that brief flash of _something_ she had felt on the stage, she doesn’t think it’s ever stopped, doesn’t think she can ever let go of it.

And, then, she decides that she will, that she’ll open her mouth and let the words she’s kept locked away for so long spill out, that she’ll tell him everything because there’s no one else.

But, then, she thinks of her father, thinks of how he had smiled at her with such pride and told her that he and her mother were already proud of her, that she’d be there—be an incredible concert pianist—someday soon. She thinks of the permanent exhaustion etched on her mother’s face in the days leading up to the move, but how she had somehow— _somehow_ , in the midst of all of it—still mustered up the energy to smile for her. She thinks of all they’ve done for her, of everything they’ve done to secure her future. She thinks of how, even, they had been forced to say goodbye to each other.

She wonders how she could possibly ever be unhappy with everything she has.

And, in that instant, she decides that she won’t. She forces the words on the tip of her tongue down, down, down—

—decides that she won't, that she can’t ever talk about this again.

“Erzsi?” Roderich prompts.

 _I’ll find a way to be happy like this_.

“Nothing, really. I guess…when I was younger, I wanted to be an aerospace engineer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information: 
> 
> _Das Waldfenster_ translates to " _The Forest Window_."
> 
> The piece that Elizabeta and Roderich play in the competition is Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, written for violin and piano. It's personally one of my favorite classical pieces, and if you'd like to listen to it, here are the [first](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XotHxi3F_M), [second](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npXF_BGrQ3w), and [third](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMFZnAe9rnk) movements. That's the version I personally like best, and it's also available on Spotify!
> 
> The "great white arch" and Praça do Comércio refer to a white arch that leads into a plaza in the city of Lisbon, Portugal, that looks out onto the ocean.
> 
> The song referenced in this story is "Os Búzios" (translated as "The Cowrie-Shells") by Ana Moura, a Portuguese fado singer. There is no translation included in this chapter, as Elizabeta does not speak Portuguese, but I've linked one [here](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/os-b%C3%BAzios-seashells.html#songtranslation). You can find the song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zreA3NgiPYE), and it is also available on Spotify. Fun fact: in one of the previous versions of this chapter, Portugal was supposed to make a cameo singing this song!
> 
> The Budapest Aeropark Museum is an open-air aviation museum in Budapest, Hungary, and it is dedicated to the history of aviation in Hungary.


End file.
